Have you ever had to sit in air-conditioned room with a damp bra underneath your shirt?
This is the second time I've had to bear with it, the soaked fabric cool against my sweat-stained chest. The first time was when I was 15 and stupid, standing near the doors of a subway train in Sydney, salt water dripping, as if I'd brought the ocean out on a train ride.
Did my perspiration reach the wires? Somehow, they're digging into my skin and I feel much more constricted than usual. If this goes on, they might just slice right through my ribs-- I wonder if it's what I wish would happen. Already, I hear the fat sizzling on the grilling plate, aromatic fumes rising up to meet the sooty ceiling where age-old grime spend their time idling away their intermittent existence. The end--or rather a new beginning-- for me is to become a blackened mass of grease.
As it bites into me, I am looking at the by-product of a failed relationship. Which is more irritable, skin being pinched by an inanimate man-made material, or frowns creasing into your skin by the force of a breathing organism? Though my inflexibility irks me more, along with the number of question marks present today.
I should go for a bathroom break.
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